


Welcoming Committee III

by DarkShadeless



Series: Overseer Sar [18]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: have you ever noticed, sometimes main characters do really weird shit and no one calls them on it, the life and times of non-main characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:11:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: And they say the food is the worst part of a stay in the medical division. Sar would like to disagree.





	Welcoming Committee III

 

 

When Sar is finally allowed to sleep he drifts into the semi-unconsciousness of someone kept awake past reasonable limits. Theron’s presence at his side, stealing what time he can before he has to return to his duties, is the only reason he manages such a feat despite how taxing the last twenty-four hours have been.

He can catnap anywhere. (Acolytes coming out of Korriban learn this trick the first time they get lost in the ruins during training. Or how to stay awake for a week at a time. Whichever works.)

Sleep? Not so much.

But Theron is there, carding gentle fingers through his hair, and while he does that Sar can _relax_.

He’ll keep watch.

 

The drugs keep him under until they don’t. Honestly, there isn’t enough spice in the galaxy to prevent Sar from clawing his way through it in the presence of a threat.

He blinks himself awake, to the surreal blue glow of a dormant medical division and his corner of the largely empty room swims into focus. And out of it again. _Ugh._

There’s a confusing moment where he isn’t sure where he is, or why, or what makes his skin prickle with unease. Then the shadow at the edge of his partition, the one that’s just a bit wrong, _moves_.

The only reason Sar doesn’t lunge for his lightsabers is that he has no idea where they got off to and _someone_ is going to pay for that.

In all fairness: Chances are he’d poke his own eye out with them, his current grasp of balance feels rudimentary at best. Lying on his back is more of a challenge than it should be.

But they would make him _feel better_.

Never let it be said Sith don’t appreciate emotional support. The tricky part is what counts as such.

A blanket won’t cut it, no matter how secure. Sar has standards. Standards that require functionality. Lightsabers have that. Or rocket launchers. You don’t even need to aim those past ‘eh, looks okay’.

… that would be really handy right now.

 

Clued in to the fact that he might still be a _little_ stoned, by a vivid desire for explosives outfitted with rocket propulsion, Sar levers himself up. When in doubt, use the weapon at your disposal.

The half-full tea cup Timmns brought him for a peace offering goes first. A pity it's stone cold.

Tea splashes over polished metal flooring. There’s a curse. (Hah! His aim is _fine_.)

Sar reaches for the rolling cart next, with both hands and his mind, cottony as it is. The structure wobbles, a sure fire hint that he’s _almost_ got it, before he slips. A ways off a kolto tank shifts an inch with a terrible screeching sound.

… well, he has something.

He hesitates but Sar’s point on projectiles stands. No one cares that almost is not quite as long as it’s also _good enough_.

The tank is bigger than the cart, ergo his chances of a hit are also bigger and bigger is good. Right? Bigger is better.

There was some reason why he shouldn’t do what he totally will as soon as he can get that thing off the ground but it’s nebulous. Can’t have been that important.

Only while Sar is having this internal debate (and working on lifting a fuck-ton with his _head_ , why is a fuck-ton so heavy?) the intruder seizes his chance to fall upon their prey in its moment of weakness. The Sith is pushed against the bed, vertigo stealing his breath. The tank slips his mental fingers.

He barely notices. A durasteel grip holds him down and it’s _literal_ steel, leading up to a face that tips unease into a flash flood of _fear_.

Arcann recoils as if he’s been slapped.

He stumbles back two steps and almost collides with the healer on duty when the Jedi bursts into the partition at what might well be a Force-enhanced run. Sar can’t tell. He’s a little busy hanging onto the railing of his bed with a white-knuckled grip and dry heaving, while his taxed system tries and fails to cope with an influx of flight response.

It’s not going well.

To healer Landri’s credit she seems to have mastered the mother-rancor instincts of good medics everywhere. The former Emperor of Zakuul doesn’t even make her flinch. “What the hell are _you_ doing here!”

Wasn’t that one more timid before? Backbone where it counts.

Also, priorities.

She doesn’t wait for an answer, or backup, before she rounds the hospital bed to measure the shaking Sith’s pulse the traditional way. That might have been a very bad idea if Sar had any control over his muscles, unconscious or not.

“Master Sar? Can you understand me?” The truth of it would be ‘kind of.’ If he could get it out. He’s burning up. In seconds he’s drenched in sweat, still gasping for breath. “Kriff. _I need some help in here D-2!”_

Thankfully Sar’s motor control restores itself enough to grab the woman before she can reach for the sedatives. “No. More. Drugs.”

He has to force his tongue to cooperate, hoarse as if he’s been screaming, but he manages.

The Jedi wavers visibly.

“ _No._ ”

Landri’s expression grows pinched and unhappy but she doesn’t go for a hypo. Sar will take it.

Reason is starting to assert itself, along with the knowledge that he has the right to refuse treatment if he _really_ wants to.

Giving his body more chemicals to process is the worst possible thing to do right now.

Sar feels as if he’s running a marathon with a pack of Dravian hounds on his heels. Not far off. His terror kick-started a full purge. He’s blazing through every remaining bit of medicine straight into withdrawal.

The headache’s starting already.

_Great. Just great._

Nagging medics and possible negative reactions weren’t the only motivation he had to avoid that. Neither was the fact that shaking _everything_ , much less at this speed, requires either deep meditation or genuine fear for his life. Little else generates the same amount of raw emotion for fuel.

Fuel he has been fed unasked and it burns his physical reserves to the quick in a frantic attempt to cleanse his body of poison. Nothing quite rivals panic to convince your already sceptical hindbrain that you’re _dying_.

Sar could have done without this shit.

By the time he comes down again, shaky and nauseous, the intruder is long gone.

Ignoring his physician’s nervous flittering he eases himself into a sitting position. It’s slow going. He requires Landri’s help before he’s done, which just adds insult to injury.

Granted, Sar could keep himself going if he really wanted to but pride alone is not enough to motivate him. It's such a paltry reason to run up the bill.

“Do you need anything? I’d advise you to take your medicine, overseer. Your vitals are…” The human trails off in disbelief. “…stabilizing?”

“Water. Just water.” He’ll be drinking his own weight twice over and then some, with no decent tea to be had. Fantastic.

“Of- of course.”

_What the fuck was that even?_

 

 


End file.
